Ice Cold in LA
by skag trendy
Summary: Set S1: Dean can't seem to get over what Sam did to him at Roosevelt, and his inability to forgive places his little brother in jeopardy.  Sick Sam and Guilty Protective Caring Dean.  A/N: Dedicated to Phx.  You'll see why.
1. Chapter 1

**Ice Cold in LA**

**Just an excuse for some Sick Sam.**

**Dean can't seem to get over what Sam did to him at Roosevelt, and his inability to forgive places his little brother in jeopardy.**

**Sick Sam and Guilty Protective Caring Dean.**

**A/N: Dedicated to Phx – because of something you told me not so long ago.**

**We've lost an awful lot of excellent authors from this fan fiction site, partly due to the website mods increasing restrictions, but mainly due to some pretty shitty attitudes by some readers. So this is also dedicated to all those readers who still love Sam, whether you bother to review or not. Though, it would be nice if you did from time to time; after all, it _is_ the only payment we writers get for all our hard work, and we don't ask for much else...**

**... not complaining. Just saying that _some of you readers are slacking off! ;-)_**

**Now. Lecture over. On with the Limp Sam...**

**Unbeta'd: all bullshit belongs to me.**

Sam glanced over at Dean several times during their journey, but the older brother ignored him, hands wrapped tight, white knuckled around the steering wheel.

In spite of six days and three hunts separating them from the events at Roosevelt Asylum, the atmosphere felt thick with tension and unspoken anger. Sam had given up on the endless apologies after the first few hundred miles, but still Dean chewed the inside of his mouth from time to time, as though ripping into the tender flesh could keep damaging thoughts at bay.

However, words and thoughts would not bring about the downfall of the Winchester brothers' this time. As the old saying goes, actions speak much, _much _louder...

* * *

><p>Freezing rain pummelled the windshield, tiny hailstones bounced harmlessly off the hood, as the Impala swept to a grumbling halt outside Old Oak Motel, Rock Cafe and Gas Stop along the 405 – <em>Wax and Valet while you wait, only $50, or $25 for motel guests in residence for more than three nights<em>.

Dean almost snorted out loud. No way would he let some stranger mess with his baby, and especially not some long haired, stoner, surfer dude in bright neon green board-shorts.

The older Winchester's eyes narrowed against the glare of those shorts as the guy swaggered up, bent a little to peer in at Dean through the driver's window, and offered a cocky grin, rain water dripping from his dirty blond hair.

Guy didn't seem bothered by the unseasonably freezing weather. Los Angeles had been in the grip of some record breaking low temperatures this winter, and surfer dude was dressed for the tropics.

_Must be all the 'herbs', _thought Dean, wryly, and rolled down his window. He was immediately hit by a cold blast of wind that nearly took his eyebrows off. When his vision cleared, the surfer's face swam back into view along with the cocky, inane grin.

"Duuuuude!" he exclaimed long and loud above the drumming of the rain and hail. "Sweeeet ride!" he finished with a whistle and a long sweeping nod of appreciation, eyes scanning the Impala up and down and left to right in a manner that made Dean feel vaguely dirty.

In addition, just as Dean had suspected, the guy's breath confirmed he'd smoked enough _Moroccan Woodbine_ to stone out the whole of Woodstock for several weeks.

Dean had uploaded his fair share of weed over the years – though, never, _ever _while on a case - so he was the last person to judge, but frankly it amazed him that this guy was still standing.

"Thanks, man," Dean replied, congenially, and grimaced as a wall of rain water was blown into his face. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes to wipe away the moisture he added "Nice weather for the time of year."

"Oh, dude, like you wouldn't believe! Waves s'gonna be _awesome, _man" the surf bum nodded, excitedly. "M'headin' out when my shift's over."

Dean covered his horror with reasonable success, nodded and smiled back at him. "Ok then. Good luck with that," he replied in a manner that suggested men in white coats would be along any second now, and was about to ask about the motel when the guy gently thumped the car roof, and wandered away without another word, that blissed out, dreamy grin still plastered on his rain-soaked face. Hands in pockets, he disappeared into the motel reception office without so much as a backward glance at his potential clients.

Dean stared after him, just a little confused. "Well, that sure was random."

"Wha-?" Sam jolted upright in his seat, hair stuck up comically on one side of his head where he'd been pressed against the passenger window. "Where we?" he muttered, sleepily, gazing out at the grey, blustery world of wintertime Los Angeles. He caught the sign for the 405 and another for Venice Boulevard, and blinked once, slow and heavy. "Oh."

Dean might've laughed at Sam's bewildered little-boy-lost routine if not for the anger still bubbling away in his gut.

"I need a shower, food, and sleep," he answered, shortly. "We'll head out for another hunt tomorrow. Been driving all damn day and I'm tired. Time to hit the hay."

"I take it you still want separate rooms?" asked Sam in a low, melancholy voice.

Dean's answer was a soft, derogatory snort before he exited the car, slamming the door shut behind him. A quick rummage in the trunk for his duffle, and he was off.

Sam sighed deeply, and watched his brother with mournful eyes as Dean hitched up his jacket collar against the rain, and sprinted to the reception office. The brothers hadn't shared a room since Roosevelt either; never mind Sam's complaints about the cost.

He'd really hoped they'd get passed all this. That Dean could forgive him for what he did, for what he'd _said, _but this prolonged period of exile was a symbol of just how deeply Sam had hurt him:

Dean wasn't usually one to bear grudges, not against Sam at any rate.

At least, not for long.

Sam reached for the door handle just as Dean left reception. Without so much as a nod or wave in Sam's direction, the older brother headed towards a motel room right at the far end of the block, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

The door shut with a finality that made Sam's eyes water with sadness. He knew he wouldn't be seeing his brother again that day. Next time he heard from Dean, it would be in the form of a text message, announcing that he would be _in the nearest diner for breakfast if you want to meet up, but that's not an order or anything. Don't wanna be accused of ordering you about._

Sam huffed, fastened the top button of his coat, and stepped out into the rain. He used his own set of keys to lock up the car, after taking his own duffle from the trunk, and set out to secure a room, all the while casting forlorn glances at the dimly lit window of his brother's. There was movement behind the tightly drawn curtains, and Sam guessed it was Dean checking the room over, laying salt lines and wards.

Sam smiled sadly, picturing the scene in his mind's eye, and desperately wishing he could be a part of it again. He turned away, shivering in the freezing cold rain.

The reception area was toasty warm and a pleasant shock to the system after coming in from the Arctic, Sam reflected with some relief. It was a good sign that the rooms would be nice and cosy...

Some blonde surfer type in too bright shorts was standing behind the desk, and fixing a 'No Vacancies' notice to the bench in front of him. When he saw Sam standing just inside the doorway, looking like an over-sized, sopping wet, drowned rat, he grinned and pointed needlessly at his badly handwritten sign.

"Sorry dude," he shrugged. "Just gave away the last one." His big, goofy, friendly face seemed to brighten even more, if that was possible. "Hey! You were in that sweet car with the dude, catchin' some Zs. Maybe he'll let you bunk in with him!"

Sam felt his heart sink, and his face sagged along with it. "Nah... uh, he's kinda a private guy. Keeps himself to himself," he glanced around, and asked hopefully "Is there somewhere else nearby?"

"There's another motel 'bout two miles from here," Surf Bum added cheerfully. "S'little over-priced and the rooms smell of piss, but hey! S'better than nothin' right? 'Specially on a day like this?"

Sam fervently agreed, but didn't fancy a two mile trudge in the rain, and he sure as hell wasn't going to risk Dean's wrath any further by taking the Impala. There was only one other option.

"Uh, thanks anyway," said Sam, as he backed away and turned towards the door.

"No problemo, man!"

Sam rolled his eyes. As far as he was aware, no one with any sense of style or taste had used that phrase since the early nineties, it having, thankfully, died a painfully slow death, eventually followed by the likes of _Hasta La Vista, Baby, _and _Wassuuuup_. Apparently, they were buried alongside '80s mullet hairdos and spandex.

RIP.

He hoped.

Stepping out into the rain and gloom, Sam huffed into his hands and rubbed them together. A quick wallet check revealed $45, enough for a meal and a couple beers to warm him up. He was going to need all the help he could get in that arena, because the rear seat of the Impala on a cold night was no picnic.

* * *

><p>Fuck all on TV, an empty mini-bar and the sheets were damp. At least there was hot water.<p>

Dean grumbled under his breath as he searched the room for spare bedding.

"Should've checked the damn bed first," he said, and hitched up his towel again. "Maybe an evening at the bar ain't such a bad idea..."

The lack of Jack Daniels wasn't the biggest problem. He could always order in or head out to a liquor store. But his wonderful plans to slide under warm blankets, TV remote in one hand and a sizable shot of JD in the other, was blown all to hell after he stepped out of the shower and took a running leap onto his bed.

Some idiot had left the nearby window wide open, allowing the rain in to pummel the carpet and bed, damn near soaking it.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, angrily, and slammed another drawer shut.

That completed his search of the room. No spare sheets or blankets. Fucking wonderful.

His eyes turned to the twin bed furthest from the door. Biting his bottom lip, Dean folded his arms and contemplated the sharp twinge of guilt that suddenly shot through him.

Sam's bed.

No matter where they were in the world, and no matter what came between them, this was always going to be Sam's bed.

But Dean just wasn't quite ready to see his little brother sleeping there again.

Not yet.

And tonight, with Sam safely ensconced in his own room, Dean's need was greater.

Sighing, he pulled his clothes back on, grabbed his wallet and slipped out to find that liquor store. Maybe he'd stop off, have a beer at the bar and get pizza on the way, or KFC, and some popcorn.

Yeah. It was gonna be a good evening after all.

He forcefully shoved down his guilt, and split.

* * *

><p>Dean's first stop was the rock cafe, and he didn't stay long. He opened the door, took one look inside, saw his little brother sitting at the bar nursing a drink, and left before the kid could turn around and spot him.<p>

* * *

><p>Sam felt the icy cold draft through his damp clothes, signalling the arrival of a newcomer, but when he turned to look, all he caught was the back of his brother's leather jacket disappearing in rapid retreat.<p>

That was probably the point when his subconscious decided it was a really good, no, _great_ idea to get heavily drunk.

He almost went after Dean, to apologize again, to try and explain _again... _but experience had already spent many hours teaching him about exercises in futility.

Instead, Sam shivered, took a long swig of his warming whisky, and tried to ignore his breaking heart.

After all, Dean was perfectly within his rights to be angry. He'd been shot in the chest at point blank range with rock salt, had to face a rage-filled little brother holding Dean's Taurus on him... a little brother who, with barely any hesitation, had pulled the trigger _five or six times_...

_Jesus! _

If he never forgave Sam... well, Sam couldn't in all honesty blame the poor guy.

So if that was the way it had to be now, then so _be it..._

Sam was vaguely becoming aware of a few things: his thoughts were growing as slurred as his speech last time he spoke to the bar tender, he'd probably had a little too much to drink, and he'd still yet to order any food. Chances were he wouldn't get around to it before he ran out of money anyhow, so he decided to stop worrying about it.

Didn't matter.

Two more double whiskies later, not much else mattered either.

* * *

><p>Dean stumbled through the door, juggling a large pizza box and a brown paper bag. Dumping his load on the motel room table by the window, he brushed freshly fallen snow from his hair and shoulders, and kicked the door shut.<p>

"Damn, that weather changed fast!" he muttered, shrugging out of his jacket.

The temperature had dropped yet again, just as the day seemed to bypass evening and go straight to nightfall. Rain, sleet and hail joined forces and pretty soon LA was being peppered with a heavy fall of snow.

Dean had been to Cali many times over the years, including his clandestine check-ups at Stanford to ensure that Sam was not only alive and breathing, but well fed and healthy, and this was the first visit in which it had actually fucking _snowed_. Not a brief flurry or a light dusting, but proper, full-on, _Santa Claus's indahouse_, kinda snow.

Just a damn shame it wasn't actually Christmas.

But when he switched on the TV and found Billy Bob Thornton in _Bad Santa_, Dean grinned, pulled out a six pack of beer from the paper bag, followed by a bottle of JD, and settled on the furthest bed with his pizza.

* * *

><p>Sam knocked back his sixth double and promptly bolted into the rest room.<p>

There was nothing quite like a good worship at the porcelain altar to put things in perspective, Sam sickly acknowledged, and from his perspective public toilets could definitely use more bleach. This train of thought was a sure fire sign of his continued drunken state, so Sam decided it was time to bed down for the night and leave.

Or was that: leave and bed down for the night?

Whatever.

Tripping out the rock cafe onto the asphalt, Sam lay on his back in the mud and slush, staring up into the night sky.

"Wassat? Agh!" he spluttered around thick, white, icy globs falling onto his face. He lifted a large, clumsy hand to wipe the stuff from his mouth and sighed heavily. "Sn-sn... snoooow. C-cooooold."

And it was all _Dean's fault_ Sam was stuck out here for the night. He'd kicked Sam out... no. No, that was wrong. Dean had _taken the last fucking room! _With a loud, angry grunt, Sam hauled himself up onto unsteady feet and stood there swaying. After a long, decisive blink, he set off towards his brother's room, but by the time he got there the anger he'd felt a few seconds ago was gone, now replaced with sadness and regret.

"D-Dean, m'sorry, man..." he sniffed, tears melting the snow on his face.

Sam stared at the door, knowing his big brother was on the other side, only a few feet away. Shadows flickered against the curtains, some TV show or other keeping Dean entertained for the night, and the smell of pepperoni and hot cheese drifted up Sam's nose, making his empty stomach growl.

He raised a loose fist, rested it gently against the cheap wooden door, preparing to knock. But he couldn't do it.

His eyes clenched shut with remorse.

Big brother didn't want him around, just like Dad, and truthfully? If Sam could've escaped his own skin, he would have. Just a damn shame suicide wasn't in his nature.

Sam caught his own reflection in the motel room window, and cringed. It was time to face the grim truth.

Sam Winchester was a coward and a liar. That was why he'd lost his brother and father in the first place, probably why he'd lost his mom, and most definitely why he'd lost Jess.

There. Done.

_Sam_ was done.

He'd sleep it off in the car for a few hours, and then he'd be gone, out of Dean's life for good.

And this time he'd change his name, go somewhere his brother would never find him.

At least that way his family would once again be safe from his stupidity and selfishness.

Turning his back, Sam staggered drunkenly across to the car and fumbled with his keys. Somewhere in his whisky-fogged brain a little voice was encouraging him to dig through the trunk for some blankets. Then it suggested a pillow might come in handy if he didn't want a crook neck come morning, and rounded off with the advice that maybe _unlocking the friggin' door_ might be to his advantage, instead of just jiggling the handle uselessly back and forth.

Sam swayed, blinked, and let go of the handle before he broke it.

_Keys._

They were in his other hand. He held them up to his face and peered at them, squinting and blinking.

_How's this go?_

_Oh yeah..._

Sam dropped them on his first attempt to unlock the rear passenger door.

_Doh!_

And the second.

On the third and final attempt, it was a damn near disaster. The key bounced off the lock and it was only by some extraordinary reflexes that Sam managed to avoid leaving an ugly great scratch down the side of the car, which came as a surprise given the state he was in.

With some awkward fumbling Sam managed to remove his wet jacket and left it draped over the trunk, that little voice having previously warned him about protecting the car's upholstery.

Snowflakes tickled his nose into a loud volley of sneezes, nearly knocking him on his ass and making his head pound.

Time to stop all this nonsense and just get in the damn car!

Wrapping the small mountain of blankets around himself, Sam crawled clumsily into the back seat before anymore snow could settle on him, and yanked the door closed against the cold.

Within minutes, he was asleep and snoring the deep, congested snore of a man who'd consumed way too much alcohol.

As the night ticked by, the temperature continued to plummet, but Sam didn't notice, even when he shivered in his sleep. Which meant, of course, that he was even less likely to notice when his body _stopped _shivering.

Snow built up in thick layers on the roof, hood and trunk, smothering Sam's jacket and freezing it stiff as a board. While his body quickly became hypothermic, breaths growing shallow and uneven, Sam slept on, oblivious to his own peril.

_**To Be Continued... ?**_

_**The choice is yours, ladies and gentlemen. I'll only continue with this depending on public demand, so start clicking that review button...**_

_**Remember: I'm not asking for an essay. It only takes a second to show your appreciation.**_

_**NB: Sam/Jared or Dean/Jensen bashers will not be appreciated, and I will waste no time in reporting you to the site mods – they've got to be useful for something, after all.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Ice Cold in LA.**

**Chapter 2.**

**Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews, my darlings. It really helps to know that someone out there does appreciate all our hard work.**

**NB: From now on, medical stuff will be unmercifully used with a healthy dose of artistic licence, so please don't pick holes. I'm bound to stretch a lot of boundaries with this, and I am aware of it.**

**Thanks.**

**Warning: swearing (It's me, after all). Shameless, inappropriate use of Dean's weapon in a motel room. Implied sexual situation, but nothing to get upset about.**

* * *

><p>Dean heard familiar feet shuffling outside the motel room and cocked his head, listening intently. The feet stopped for a long moment, as though Sam was debating whether or not to knock. But to Dean's utter relief, he heard the kid sniff and move away.<p>

Hot, pepperoni pizza was singing his song, with an accompaniment from Señor Mozzarella and Madame Tomate!

Dean smirked. If only Sammy was here, he'd pick holes a mile wide in Dean's Italian...

The smirk faded.

Maybe not.

He bit off a particularly chewy piece, with the cheese stringing out between his lips and fingers. A small morsel of tomato fell off and slid down his tee-shirt, leaving a red stain. He shrugged and wiped it up with his index finger.

Someone on the TV screamed. Dean just nodded along and slurped his beer, but as the evening wore on, he realised he was missing something... or someone.

It wasn't the first time the brothers had been apart, but something was niggling at him tonight. A little itch at the back of his neck, maybe, or a cold chill down his spine.

Dean turned his head to stare at the motel room door for a few long seconds.

Nah. It was nothing.

The room was secure. No doubt Sammy had laid down wards and protection symbols for his own room. Kid might be many things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

Dean fell asleep with that comforting thought, popcorn spilling over the bed, his sixth beer unopened on the night stand. However, his dreams were anything but peaceful.

_Dean... help me... so cold... please... let me in._

_Dean blinked away snow collecting on his eyelashes._

_Sammy? Where are you, dude?_

_Right in front of you, Dean. I'm right in front of you! Where I've been all along..._

... Dean startled awake, gasping for air.

"Jesus Christ!"

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean blinked and forced himself to breathe deeply.

"Huh," he mumbled, and threw back the covers. Caveman mode was in full operation this morning.

Padding over to the window, Dean winced.

_Cold carpet. Nasty. Must seek warmth._

_Head hurts. Must seek pain killers... _

He yawned, stretched and scratched his chest through the pizza-stained teeshirt.

"Whoa! That's some daylight out there!" he exclaimed after tearing the curtains open and wincing again. Snow brightened the world way too much for a guy who'd been on beer and whisky chasers most of the night.

_Dean... m'cold..._

Even so, he hadn't expected to sleep for so long, but the weather had at least calmed down a little. It was no longer snowing, or raining, which had to be a big friggin' bonus.

_Please... need you..._

God! Hangovers were a bi-artch!

_Dean... help me..._

He yawned widely and thought about breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, maybe some hashbrowns...

_Dean... please... __**M'sorry**__...!_

Dean jerked backwards and slammed his fist against the motel room wall. Fortunately, it wasn't concrete or he'd have been queuing up in the local ER for a cast.

As distractions went it was pretty poor, because that feeling of cold dread just wouldn't go. Nothing would channel it away from him, because it quickly became clear that this wasn't just his much maligned conscience talking at him - 'little brother in danger' would always find a way through.

His heart suddenly pounded into a fast gallop and _freezingicecold_ pin-pricked the tips of his fingers.

The sudden image of Sam, blue lipped and frozen solid, wouldn't fade.

Sam's voice, in his dreams, begging for help, still haunted him. And that was just plain stupid. Dean wasn't the psychic in the family. As far as he was concerned there _were _no psychics in the family. Just a kid brother with a screwy imagination... right?

_Right?_

_Dean... c-cold..._

"Oh for God sake shut the fuck up!" he snapped to his imaginary Sam.

A loud thumping immediately came through the bedroom wall.

"Hey!" a voice announced, angrily. "How 'bout _you _shuttin' the fuck up! Some people are tryin' ta have _sex_ in here!"

Dean responded by removing the Taurus from his duffle, checking the clip, and calmly firing a round into the ceiling.

He waited. Silence reigned, stiff and terse, until the same voice, completely devoid of its previous confidence, but making up for it with a nervous wobble, spoke once again.

"Uh. Whatever you say, dude."

Dean nodded, smugly. _I should think so, pal._

Snagging his phone, Dean slammed out the room, already tapping in his message to Sam.

_Breakfast. Diner._

Needless to say he was rather surprised to hear a muffled chirping from the vicinity of his car.

"Huh?"

It sounded like the text alert on Sam's cell phone. And it came from Dean's car.

His car, which was no longer black, but white with snow. Around three inches of it, if he was any judge.

Stepping carefully around the car, he swiped some snow from the roof, and let it crumble through his hands. He still couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about the snow...

Dean's eyes travelled the length of the car, widening slightly when they lit on a strange lump on the trunk lid. He used his arm to sweep all the snow from the top of the trunk, revealing a familiar brown hoodie. His fingers touched the material, and he almost jumped back, gasping. It was frozen solid. But now he knew where the text alert had come from.

He sent another just to be sure.

_Beep! Beep!_

"Shit!" Dean stood back and turned in a full circle, heart thumping painfully in his chest, eyes scanning the parking lot. "Sammy? Sam!"

His cry was met with dense silence, the entire world muted by snow.

_Where the hell could he have gotten to? And what was he doing out here without his jacket?_

Dean growled angrily, turned and strode along the sidewalk, intent on having it out with the stupid kid, but he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Guilt flashed hot and heavy in his gut with the realisation that he didn't even know Sam's room number.

He groaned and rubbed his forehead.

_Nice going asshole._

A visit to the reception desk was looking likely, but that niggling sensation intensified, and Dean felt ridiculously unsettled. He couldn't bring himself to leave the car...

Turning slowly on the spot, and feeling foolish as all hell, Dean stared at the Impala.

His steps were slow at first, but soon sped up as that crazy gut instinct screamed louder and louder, until he was running. With a stylish, Starsky and Hutch manoeuvre across the hood, Dean came down on the passenger side and skidded to a halt by Sam's window. Brushing away ice and snow, he peered in, frantically searching for a puppy-eyed Sasquatch in the passenger seat.

"Sammy? You in there?" he yelled, and yanked on the door handle. "Sam? Open up dammit!"

Using his elbow to clear the rear passenger window this time, he finally came up trumps. A blanketed bundle lay curled up and unmoving in the back seat, booted feet sticking out at one end, and a mop of chestnut brown hair at the other.

"Sam, wake the fuck up!"

Panic rising thick and fast, Dean thumped on the roof and twisted the handle again. He quickly found, to his distress, that it was not only locked, but when he tried his keys they wouldn't budge. The car was in total lock down. Frozen shut. A tomb of ice and steel.

"Sammy!"

Dean tugged and pulled and pushed, but the car wouldn't allow him entry. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes when the same result came from trying the trunk. He couldn't even reach the tyre iron to smash a window, and a sharp jab with an elbow not only proved fruitless but fucking painful. For an old car, the windows were like panes of hardened diamond. Real life wasn't like the movies, he reflected bitterly. It sucked.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dean's brain was no longer just ticking over, but steaming ahead desperately fast, considering and discarding any non-viable options. Until he came to the last one.

He was getting Sam free, one way or another.

It was time for an act no mere mortal man has ever been truly capable of.

Multitasking.

Dean scrambled back across to the motel room, all the while dialling emergency services. He had no idea just how much trouble Sam was in, or if he was even sick, but Dean wasn't taking the chance. If it took him too long to get the car open, Sam could already be dead by the time help arrived.

There was a kettle in the far corner of Dean's room, presumably for making tea, or instant coffee in the case of the deprived caffeine addict. While talking to the dispatcher on the other end of the call, he wasted no time in filling the kettle up with water and connecting it to the mains. Leg left jiggling anxiously; he waited for the damn thing to boil which, of course, took the exact same amount of time as it takes for a supernova to form.

Watched pots and all, he guessed.

The emergency dispatcher was professional, yet sympathetic when Dean informed her of Sam's plight. She advised him against using the kettle, for safety reasons, (scald burns, cracked glass, etc) but no way was she going to talk him out of it. Instead, she wished Dean luck and warned against moving Sam once he gained access to the car.

"Roger that," he murmured, and blew out a breath of relief once the kettle finally boiled. "At long fucking last!"

Ripping out the mains cord, Dean grabbed the hot kettle and sprinted out the door. He didn't care about the risks. So what if the hot water made the window crack? Better the damn window bought it than his little brother.

Sam hadn't moved in the brief time Dean had been away, still in the same position, buried under his blankets. Dean could only conclude that his kid brother was seriously going to need that ambulance when it arrived.

Bearing in mind the dispatcher's warning, Dean selected the front passenger door, furthest away from Sam's head, and positioned the kettle spout over the lock. He began pouring, just a small amount at first, then poured more over the handle and window, let it gradually sink into the gaps in the panels and locking mechanism. Not until the kettle was finally empty did Dean grasp the handle and give an almighty tug.

With a deep, loud crack of ice and snow, a groan and a squeal of aging hinges, the door miraculously came open.

The kettle hit the snow covered ground with a dull _thung_ while Dean scrambled inside and crawled over into the back, feet tucked into the foot well.

"Sam... Sammy?" he begged, loudly. "Talk to me, buddy."

He pulled the blanket down from Sam's face, the kid's hair falling over his forehead and tangling up in his eyelashes. Sam's skin was ice cold, his lips painted with a bluish tinge. He looked like an extra from the aftermath of the Titanic.

Dean cradled Sam's face between his palms and gave him a very gentle shake.

"Sammy, please," he whispered, fearfully. "Open your eyes for me, c'mon, open them..."

The kid was breathing, but only just. Short puffs of air grazed the back of Dean's hand when he checked, and his pulse was way too weak.

Tucking the blankets back around the kid, he climbed over to the front seat, and slipped the key into the ignition. The engine whirled and spluttered, but didn't catch, sending Dean into an all new panic attack.

"C'mon! Start, baby, start!" Dean pleaded, opening all the vents and switching the heaters on full. "You can do it... for me? You can do it, baby. C'mon, start for daddy, and I'll treat you to an early oil and filter change, maybe some new sparkplugs... _attagirl!_"

The car roared to life, chilled air flowing through the vents until the heater kicked in and took the edge off. Dean patted the steering wheel with a relieved smile.

"Knew I could depend on you, baby."

In the meantime, he had a little brother to defrost.

Dean knelt back in the rear foot well, and began stripping out of his jacket and shirt. Good job Sam was still unconscious, or Dean was never going to live this down.

"Alright, Sammy. This never leaves the car. You _ever _tell anyone about this, and the hair gets it!"

He stopped short of removing his jeans (there were some lines even Dean wouldn't cross), and crawled under the blankets with Sam. Tugging him as close as possible, he grabbed Sam's hands and shoved them under his armpits.

_Jesus! Kid's freezing!_

Dean had a hard time not crying out like a little girl, because the feel of those cold hands against his sensitive flesh came as one hell of a shock. Wrapping his arms around the younger boy, and tucking that head of chilled, brown hair, face-first into his neck, Dean rubbed his hands up and down Sam's back, all the while talking in a soft, low voice.

"I'm here, Sammy. It's all ok, now. I'm here..." he whispered into the boy's hair. He kept Sam's body covered with his, the blankets binding the brothers tightly together. "Just hold on, keep breathing, that's it. In... and out. Good boy, Sam. Keep going, now. Don't give up on me..."

The car warmed up quickly, and it became unbearably hot under the blankets, but still Dean didn't let go. Sam's colour was slowly improving, but he hadn't yet regained consciousness, and Dean wondered if the stench of stale whisky on Sam's clothes had anything to do with it.

Sirens sounded off in the distance, growing louder as they drew near, and Dean sighed with relief. Given the state of the roads, the ambulance was making good time.

"Help's nearly here, Sammy," he murmured in Sam's ear. "Just keep holding on for me, now."

Sam still didn't stir, his breathing remained shallow, but that blue tinge was almost completely gone.

"Hey! Dude!" a familiar voice called out, and there came a loud thumping on the roof.

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when a big goofy grin appeared at his window.

The blond surf bum was back and that goofy grin, now that Dean thought about it, was turning into a leer. He sighed and wound down the window, the blanket slipping a little.

"Wow! Car sex must've been hot, huh?" the surfer commented, staring at Sam's lax features and taking in Dean's semi naked state. "You damn near steamed up the windows!"

"W-what?" Dean stammered in disgust. "He's my brother, for God sake!"

The goofy leer disappeared, replaced with a look of fascinated horror.

"Whoa!" the kid backed off, hands palm-outwards in front of him, shaking his head. "Not at this establishment! You take that incest shit elsewhere before someone calls the cops!" His head swivelled to and fro, nervously eyeing the parking lot. "Got enough crap going down here without a pervert parade."

Dean bristled angrily. "Hypothermia, you shit head! Now go get us some more blankets!"

The guy's eyes widened and his face flushed with guilt. "Uh... sorry, man... uh... blankets? Yeahyeahyeah! Blankets I can do... uh..."

He skidded away towards the reception office, and Dean called out after him.

"And bring coffee! Black, no sugar! Decent hot coffee! None of that instant shit!

He smiled when he heard a faint "Coffee... got it!"

Five minutes later, there came a scuffling noise from the reception area and Dean saw a walking pile of blankets, with one hand stuck out from underneath, awkwardly clutching a steaming Styrofoam cup. The blanket pile tottered clumsily to and fro along the sidewalk, nearly slipping over on the ice. When it finally reached the car, the hand thrust the cup through the open window, with a muffled "foffee, flack, fo fugar."

Dean accepted the offering gratefully, took an appreciative sip, and placed it on the rear shelf above the seat.

"Thanks."

"Fon't fention fit. Fhatafout flankets?"

Dean frowned. "Huh?"

Surf Bum lowered his arms until his face appeared, and spat out a few mouthfuls of fluff.

"What about – _pah _- the blankets?"

Staring in exasperation, Dean huffed. "Where'd ya think?" he snapped. "Hypothermic little brother here, dude!"

Surf Bum got the message, jumped to it and opened the passenger door.

"Sorry man, I just... yeah... I'll uh... yeah..." he piled the blankets on top of the brothers, babbling and just making nervous conversation. "I've had hypothermia couple times... yeah... nearly lost a finger 'cos of it."

Dean's frown deepened. "Dude, that's frost bite."

The guy stopped what he was doing to stare at Dean.

"Ya know? I think you're right! Yeah, musta been frost bite," he grinned sheepishly, and started tucking the blankets in around the boys again. "So, like... what happened, dude? Last I saw him, your bro asked me about another motel. But I guess he didn't wanna walk all that way in the snow... can't blame him."

"Huh? What? Why would he ask about going to another motel?" Dean's ear pricked up. Maybe he'd finally figure out what went wrong last night. Why Sam ended up almost frozen to death in the Impala.

Surf Bum looked instantly uncomfortable. "Well, 'cos... uh... you kinda took the last room."

He shrugged, sympathetically, as though guessing that he'd imparted some pretty damaging information. "Sorry dude, but I got the feeling he didn't wanna ask to share with you."

Dean's mouth fell open but nothing came out. It felt like his entire world was coming down around him, and his heart cracked right through the centre like a shifting fault line.

He turned to stare at Sam's face.

"God... Sammy..."

He didn't have time to really process it all, because the paramedics were on the scene, barking out rapid fire orders and gently, but firmly, pushing the Surf Bum away.

No doubt there'd be plenty of opportunity for self-flagellation later on, in the waiting room.

_**To Be Continued...**_

_**I was going to wrap it up this chapter but it ran away with me when Surf Bum came back on the scene. He kept making me laugh and begging to be included once again.**_

_**What can I say? I've got a soft spot for the Surf Bum.**_

_**So next chapter, Sam will be in hospital. Now, I'm kind of writing this by the seat of my knickers here, which I haven't actually done in many years (I nearly always have the entire story written before I start posting), but I thought it might be good for me to do this just for a change. So you guys have a rare opportunity to make suggestions for Sam's recovery... would you like to see some complications? Nothing too long winded 'cos I don't have an awful lot of time to dedicate to medical research. **_

_**Are we all on board for a Winchester brotherly hug? A silently crying Sammy perhaps? Or would we prefer to keep it completely macho?**_

_**Just let me know, my dears...**_

**_Once again, thank you so much for your show of support. It has been wonderfully overwhelming to read all your reviews, and though I've not had time to respond to each and every one, please know that I'm ecstatic to hear from you all. _**

**_When I post the last chapter, I promise to personally respond to everyone who reviews it, but as you can see by the review count for chapter 1, I had to decide between replying, or writing the next chapter. _**

**_I hope you all believe that I made the right decision, difficult as it was, because I actually enjoy replying to my readers' reviews._**

**_I've had an extremely difficult few years, culminating in a bad illness last summer which really knocked me off my writing groove. I'm only just getting it back and my confidence is fragile, so keep up with those reviews... let me know you are still reading my fics, and encouraging me._**

**_I would like to point out to certain people that just because I like to read reviews for the stories I __share with the fandom, doesn't make me a bad person._**

_**Or does it?**_

_**Ok, here we go. **_

_**My penname is Skag Trendy, and I have a terrible addiction...**_

**I love seeing reader reviews!**

_**There, I have emerged from the closet with my horrible, nasty, dirty, soulless habit.**_

**_I feel so much better now._**

**_And a special note to someone who PM'd me earlier: I _do_ write from the heart and mind, I just don't always post it on the internet._**

_**On a lighter note:**_

_**Hunter of the Shadows Book 3 is in progress and well under way, I can assure you, and will hopefully be ready for posting later on this year at the earliest. Phx has been kind enough to read through the first couple of chapters, and you'll be pleased to know that, so far, she's given me a big thumbs up, which is the main reason why I've dedicated this fic to her, lovely lady that she is.**_

_**Bless you my darling Phx.**_

_**With much love,**_

_**ST xxx**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Ice Cold in LA**

**Chapter 3**

**Warning: swearing. Plus, terrible misuse of medical terminology.**

**Many thanks for all your reviews so far, and again I'm terribly sorry for not having replied to absolutely everyone. Time has been getting away from me, but I have tried to get around to most people at some point.**

**Oh, and some of you might not be aware, but I couldn't reply because your private messaging had been disabled. Just thought it might be worth pointing out.**

**On with the show...**

Minute, distant sounds filtered through the darkness, a surprise after so much time spent in relative peace and tranquillity. Someone was talking, voice soft, scared... _familiar._ It grated on his nerves, his aching head.

Sam moaned and rolled his head away, seeking tranquillity once more, but it was lost to him now.

That voice grew urgent, louder, more demanding.

"Sam... Sammy... c'mon dude... time to wake up."

_Leave me alone... Eyes won't open..._

_Don't __**wanna**__ open... _

"_Please_, Sam..."

_Can't... just can't... too tired... _

"Look, I know I've been a shitty brother..." the voice sounded hurt, guilty and remorseful.

Sam cracked open his eyes, and took a tentative, long breath.

"Hmmm...? Wha...?"

A white ceiling met his confused gaze, and a sharp smell of disinfectant wafted up his nose.

_Hospital !_

His first instinct was to run... or maybe scream. Except, he had no energy, no clue where he was, apart from being in a hellhole... er... hospital, and... _what the hell was that?_

His vision was pretty blurred and he felt ridiculously helpless, but the hairy creature sitting next to him, with the wide, anxious green eyes, was freaking him the hell out.

When the creature moved closer to the bed, reaching out to him, Sam whimpered and tried to shrink away. He was tempted to throw the blankets over his head, but his body refused to cooperate with absolutely any requests for movement. All it seemed interested in was the _boilinghotfreezingcold _that had him sweating his ass off one moment and freezing it off the next. It angered, confused and scared him all in one go, which was quite the achievement.

Beads of moisture ran down the sides of his face and over his nose, which when combined with some plastic tube he found hooked there only served to heighten his irritation.

"Sammy?" the hairy creature spoke up, sounding kind and worried, withdrew its hand in light of Sam's obvious distress, but made a gesture to its own nose. "Leave that on, kiddo. S'helping you... " It shrugged despondently, in way that gave Sam's memory a twinge and made his heart ache. "You got pretty sick, dude."

Sam frowned as he worked it out.

"D-Dean?" he breathed out, and just the effort of using his vocal cords had him panting with exertion. "Y-you're all..." his frown deepened. "...f-furry," he finished on a sigh, head rolling helplessly across his pillow.

Dean chuckled sadly and rubbed his stubbled jaw line. "Yeah. Not been back to the motel since we brought you in."

Sam blinked slowly and raised an index finger, waggling it weakly at the room. "H-how... l-long?"

Dean appeared to hesitate, as though not sure how much to tell him, then seemed to give in.

"Four, nearly five days. You got pneumonia." This time when he reached out, his hand rested on Sam's shoulder, gently rubbing and squeezing. "Do... do you remember anything, Sam?"

Sam stared at his brother as the memories came flooding forth, and swallowed back bile under a rising wave of nausea.

Oh, he remembered, alright. He remembered all too well. And Dean must have understood from the look on his face or something, because he nodded sadly.

"No room at the inn, so on a freezing cold night you got shitfaced and slept in the car," his mouth twisted in self-derision. "Found you almost frozen to death the next morning. Had to pour boiling water on my baby just to get you out, dumbass."

But though his words were harsh, his voice was gentle and tinged with amusement.

Sam smiled wearily.

"W-was s-s'posed to be g-gone... b-by then," he whispered and closed his eyes for a second. "F-figured it w-was for the b-best if I l-left."

"What?" Dean didn't sound too happy hearing that. "You were gonna walk away... _again?_"

Sam's eyes flew open at the harsh sound of a chair being scraped across the floor. He flinched when he looked up and saw his very angry looking older brother on his feet and looming over him.

"You sure do give up on family easy, ya know that?" Dean fumed, eyes sparking. "You're a hypocrite, Sam. The slightest difficulty, or the smallest mistake, and you turn tail and run."

Sam's eyes widened, his own anger triggered. "I w-wasn't r-runnin'... you m-made it p-plain h-how you felt..." adrenaline helped him get out the last few words but at a hefty price. "Since Roosevelt... y-you d-dint want me hanging around!"

He slumped, exhausted, breathing heavily through his nose, hoping that was the end of it because, in spite of the oxygen tube, he just couldn't seem to get enough air.

But Dean wasn't anywhere near finished.

"You would have _shot_ me, with my own gun, and you think that just gets forgiven over night? Relationships are hard for a reason, Sam! They take work, and courage, and sacrifice, that's what makes them worthwhile." He suddenly sneered and shook his head. "Gotta say I'm amazed you lasted with Jess as long as you did without walking out and abandoning _her_. She must've been pretty damn perfect, huh?"

Sam froze, felt the bile rise in his throat once more. He stared, wide-eyed at his brother, the air driven from his lungs. Dean's words tore into his soul, and feasted upon the huge platter of guilt and remorse that had haunted him since Jessica's demise.

The ability to breathe escaped him.

_It's true._

The room dimmed at the edges.

_It's all true._

"Sam..." Dean's voice now sounded muffled, and the tone had changed. "Sammy, I'm sorry, dude." Gone was the anger, replaced by deep concern and regret. "I had no right to say that to you... shouldn't have brought Jess into it... not your fault... Sam? _Sammy, breathe!"_

Sam got to witness Dean's face lose all colour, before a sharp pain suddenly arced through his chest and radiated out down his left arm. He bit back a moan. His chest felt like it was being crushed under a heavy weight.

He felt movement and heard Dean yelling for help. Heard a beeping noise, and realised it had been there all along, but only just registered in his brain now it had gone berserk...

Somehow, someone else had come into his room without him noticing, because they were standing over him, talking to him, asking him questions he couldn't understand or answer. In the background, Dean paced, hands behind his head, face twisted with worry and grief... Sam wanted to know why. He wanted to call out to his brother, but the pain sharpened, making him gasp for a breath that just wouldn't come.

The room faded amid beeps and raised voices; peace and tranquillity became his refuge once again.

* * *

><p><em>Oh holy hell what the fuck have I done to him?<em>

Dean was horrified the very moment the rant escaped, and he wanted to chase after the words, grab them from the air before they entered Sam's ears, and stuff them back in his own mouth.

_Fuck!_

He hadn't meant it, not that like that anyway, but when he heard Sam talk about leaving, so soon after almost losing him to hypothermia, his internal panic alarm went haywire and shut off all reason, leaving his brain in the grip of _fearangerfearangerfearanger_.

He was exhausted and scared half to death. Sleep deprivation, from his four day long vigil at his little brother's bedside, had taken its toll and spilled out shit all over Sammy.

Kid hadn't deserved it. Any of it.

"Sam..."

Dean watched helplessly as Sam struggled to breathe, only the whites of his eyes showing. The cardiac monitor went insane, and before Dean could even reach for the call button, the door to Sam's room was flung open, admitting a grey haired, white coated, middle aged guy, wearing a stethoscope round his neck.

"Sam? Can you hear me?" he ignored Dean, went straight to his patient and gently thumbed open Sam's eyes one at a time, shining a small penlight in each. "Sam, I know you're not feeling too good right now, but I need you to stay awake and talk to me, ok? Sam?"

Dean's heart sank.

Sam's face was a mask of pain, and white as the snow outside the hospital room window. His breathing sounded harsh, as though every draw of air was a gargantuan effort.

"Sam?" the doctor, whose voice had been gentle but clipped, now became laced with worry. "Sam, can you hear me?" he repeated.

Dean was horrified when Sam's head rolled to one side, mouth suddenly slackened, as though he'd completely given up.

_Nonononono... _

"He's coding," the doc muttered and whipped the pillow out from under Sam's head. A quick press of the call button invited several more medical professionals into the room, one of them pushing what Dean recognised as a crash cart.

He guessed he'd seen way too many medical dramas.

"Sir, I need you to step outside..."

Yep. That too.

He left without putting up a fight. He figured he owed Sammy at least that.

Out in the hall, feeling lost, guilty and lonely, Dean sniffed, sobbed and paced. This had to be a record. Two screw-ups in the same week, both resulting in his brother's pain.

As for the self-flagellation, if he thought the first one was bad from earlier in the week when they first admitted Sam, this time around was going to be a real humdinger.

If Sam didn't survive this, Dean wouldn't either. John Winchester was going to lose _both_ his sons, one way or another, and Dean couldn't bring himself to feel guilty about that.

God! Roosevelt was a bad enough memory on its own for Dean, without all this. By pushing Sam away he'd only made things a thousand times worse, rather than better. And to think he'd just accused _Sam_ of giving up on his family.

Dean's pacing sped up, his stride lengthened. Over the last four days, he'd debated calling his dad, but knew from experience there wouldn't be a response. He'd just end up leaving a voicemail message that he wasn't even sure would ever be heard. Pastor Jim, Bobby Singer, and Caleb were too far away, and in any case what could any of them do that the doctors couldn't?

He sent his dad a text. Just in case.

Having finally worn himself out, Dean leaned up against the wall of Sam's room, and sank down until his butt was resting on the floor, head on knees.

This was his chance to really reflect on the last few days, anything to take his mind off what was happening in the next room.

Dean's first good look at Sam, after he was carted away into the ER four days ago, came when the middle aged doctor approached him in the waiting room and introduced himself. Dr Morvant had been kind and congratulatory over the lengths Dean had gone to for Sam.

They'd quietly entered Sam's room, and watched the kid from the end of his bed. Sam's breath had fogged up the oxygen mask with a reassuring, regular pattern, and Dean had breathed right along with him for the first time in what seemed like hours. The kid was still pale, but looked less like a corpse, and his body was covered with a heating blanket.

The doctor assured Dean that Sam was warming up slowly and his blood pressure was almost back to normal. His piercing blue eyes had twinkled when he smiled and patted the older brother on the shoulder.

_Well done, Son. You saved his life._

Twelve hours after Sam came out of ICU he went straight back in again with pneumonia, and there he stayed, with Dean camped out in the chair next to his bed.

Dean snorted into a knee cap, feeling the denim of his jeans grow suspiciously wet.

Saved his life.

Yeah, right.

Saved him just to poleaxe him in his own sick bed. Dean was disgusted with himself.

If... _when_ Sam got better, Dean was going to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness from the kid, and he didn't care how long it took. He wasn't giving up. Not this time.

* * *

><p>It seemed like hours before Dean heard the door to Sam's room open.<p>

"Dean," Doc Morvant appeared beside him, dropped into a crouch. "We need to talk, Son."

Dean glanced up, filled with dread. "Is he...?"

The doc immediately shook his head, and Dean sagged with relief. "Sorry I scared you. Sam's alive, but there are a few things we have to discuss."

Dean rubbed both hands up and down his face and nodded. "Uh... sure. Shoot."

The doctor smiled. "Not here. Let's go somewhere more private."

His manner seemed congenial enough, courteous, and all friendly concern, so Dean took that as a good sign. He wearily climbed to his feet, straightened his jacket and trudged after the guy.

Nothing was said in the short walk to the guy's office. Doc Morvant gestured to a chair and closed the office door. Dean nodded, wondered at the strange 'called to the Principal's office' feeling, and sat down while the doc perched on the corner of his desk.

"So, how's he doing? When can I see him?" asked Dean, anxiously. "Is he gonna be ok? Is he awake?"

"Sam suffered a cardiac arrest," the doctor murmured, softly, then held up a hand when Dean's mouth dropped open in dismay. "He's going to be fine, so long as he takes certain precautions. I've intubated him for now, and although it will look pretty scary to you, it's just to help him so he doesn't have to work too hard at this stage. We're going to monitor him very closely over the coming week, make sure his heart's going to be ok, and not under too much stress."

"Do you think...?" mind latching on to the word 'stress', Dean swallowed back his nervousness and tried again. "Do you think I might have been the cause of it? I mean, we'd been fighting a lot recently."

The doc tilted his head. "Sam's body has been under some considerable strain from the hypothermia, closely followed by pneumonia," he said, gently. "There's a chance it might've happened anyway, regardless of whatever transpired between you two in his room just now."

So the doc knew something had been said or done to upset Sam. And although he was trying to put Dean's mind at rest, it was telling that he hadn't confirmed or denied the older brother's suspicions.

"Shit!" Dean suddenlt felt dizzy and sick. "This is my fault. When he woke up... I yelled at him. Said some things... oh God! I'm gonna hurl..."

And he did. But a trashcan was already there under his nose, held by the doctor who was watching him with concern. He waited patiently for Dean to finish then pushed a box of tissues under his nose.

Dean nodded and wiped his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste of bile.

"Thanks," he mumbled, flushing with embarrassment. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Not a problem," the doc answered. "But this is partly what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Huh?" Dean blinked. "Did I miss something? I thought we were talking about Sam."

"We are," Dr Morvant settled back, one leg crossed over a knee. "Neither of you are in a particularly fit state. Both of you have recently been drinking heavily – I tested Sam's blood for medical reasons, and smelled alcohol on your breath when you came in with him. You're both exhausted and malnourished. You should have been eating far more over the last few days." He pointed an accusing finger at Dean. "In fact, I've hardly seen you eat at all. That's not good for someone of your stature. Your brother even less so, given his height, and something tells me this has been going on for far too long."

Dean stared at him, utterly speechless. He was twenty six years old and having his knuckled rapped like a school boy.

"I can't force you two to eat properly or stay off the booze," the doc continued, either blind to Dean's indignant reaction or just plain ignoring it. "But I _will_ advise you as best I can. Sam needs plenty of rest, and healthy food. And you," he suddenly got up and crossed the room. A familiar looking duffle lay on top of a dull, grey filing cabinet. The doc picked it up and strode back over, dumping it in Dean's lap, "need a change of clothes. There's a visitor's bathroom just down the hall. It's even got a shower. Use it."

He grinned at the incredulous look on Dean's face. "Courtesy of Tarquin."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? Who the hell is Tarquin?"

"Motel owner? Surfer guy? Keeps saying everything's 'sweeeet, dude!'?" The doc folded his arms, amused. "He came by earlier this afternoon, but you'd fallen asleep so I asked him not to disturb you. He says hi, hopes your 'little bro is cool' – no pun intended - and that your 'sweeeet ride' is all locked up safe, ready for you to collect."

"Uh..." Dean shook his head, a little overwhelmed. "Thanks. I don't know what to say."

_Seriously, who the hell names their kid Tarquin?_

"Don't mention it," said the doc. "Just go get that shower and something to eat before you go see your brother. He'll be out cold from sedatives while on the ventilator anyhow, so take your time."

Dean gathered, from the look on his face, the doc knew that last comment was a complete waste of breath.

* * *

><p>Freshly shaved, clean clothes, stomach, if not full, certainly a little less empty than it had been, Dean felt in better spirits by the time he poked his head round Sam's door. But it soon faded and his heart sank with dismay. Kid looked so helpless and vulnerable on the vent.<p>

"Aw, Sammy..."

He slipped inside the room and slunk over to the bed, like a dog with its tail right down.

Dean stared at his silent little brother's face, reached out and smoothed a few stray locks of hair over Sam's ears.

"Need to get your hair trimmed one of these days, kiddo," he murmured, softly, letting the back of his fingers trail gently over Sam's cheek, something he hadn't allowed himself to do since the kid turned twelve. Winchesters abandoned all displays of affection once they hit their double figures, but with Sam he had made an exception for two more years. His little brother always was a lot more touchy feely than the rest of their little clan, so Dean knew he wouldn't mind.

If he was honest, the gesture was more to comfort himself than Sam, who was currently drugged up to the gills and probably couldn't feel it anyhow.

With that in mind, Dean felt it was the perfect time to start practicing his apologetics, and if Sam did, by chance, manage to hear them, then all the better.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and grasped one of Sam's huge paws.

"You still feel a little cold, buddy," he whispered, softly, rubbing Sam's fingers. With a sigh, he hung his head. "I don't really know where to begin. There's so much I need to apologise for, yet there's nothing I can really say to make it all better."

Dean placed his other hand on Sam's chest, feeling the rise and fall as the vent did its work.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo," he said, letting the tears go. They dripped down his face and off the end of his nose, but he did nothing to wipe them away. "I've treated you like shit, I know that. I over-reacted after Roosevelt. It wasn't you, not really. Sure, you and I have issues, who doesn't? But I know, in my heart, that you wouldn't have hurt me if you'd been in your right mind. God knows what I might've done if I'd gotten the full dose! So it's NOT ok for me to stand in judgment over you, and it sure as hell ain't my place to either."

He felt a light squeeze on the hand holding Sam's, and glanced down.

Sam's fingers were moving slightly, rubbing gently against Dean's.

It seemed the sedatives weren't quite powerful enough to knock the kid out all the way. Dean smiled a little. Sam's a big guy, after all.

"And as for what I said when you woke up, hell…" Dean continued, squeezing Sam's hand with more confidence. "That was a really shitty thing to do to you; kicking you when you were down. And for the record? I don't blame you for wanting to leave. After this, I wouldn't blame you if you decided you never wanted to see me again."

There came a slightly harder squeeze on Dean's hand, and this time it didn't let up, as though Sam was desperate to keep him there.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean answered his brother's silent plea. "I'm staying right here until you wake up, I promise." He leaned over and lowered his mouth to Sam's ear. "I know I've never said it, mainly because I always hoped you just knew, but I fucking love you, kid. You hearin' me Sammy? You're my little brother, and I love you so damn much it hurts sometimes. So you get better, ok? You get better, you wake all the way up, and we'll talk this out."

* * *

><p>Dean woke up to an insistent vibrating in his jacket pocket. His eyes widened when he saw the caller ID.<p>

"Pastor Jim," he said with false levity. "Long time no see."

"Indeed," said the Pastor, quietly. "I received an email from an unknown source this morning. It told me some disturbing news about Sam."

The last sentence sounded more like a question.

"Seriously?" asked Dean, a little shocked. "I didn't realise Dad knew about email. They haven't covered it in Luddite Monthly yet."

There was a soft, muffled snort down the line and Dean grinned. Jim Murphy always tried to play down his wicked sense of humour, but he'd never managed to fool the Winchesters.

"How is he?" asked the Pastor, after he'd composed himself. "Sam, I mean."

Dean looked at his brother, took in the pale features and the sunken shadows under his eyes.

"Not great, but he's getting there," he answered as honestly as he could. "It… it was too close, Pastor Jim. I nearly lost the kid this time. And it was my fault."

He heard a long, slow breath exhaled on the other end before the guy spoke again.

"Tell me everything…"

* * *

><p>When Dean finished off-loading all his transgressions, in a weird kind of Phone Confessional, i.e. the bathroom next door, Jim clucked his tongue and chuckled.<p>

"You boys don't do anything by halves, just like your father," he murmured. "But you say that Sam's going to be ok?"

"Yeah," said Dean, feeling marginally better. He didn't believe in God, and he certainly didn't go to church but, somehow, talking to Pastor Jim had made a difference. Made him feel more able to cope. "He's still on assisted breathing, and they're monitoring his heart just in case, but his doc insists Sam will recover given time. He just needs to take it easy for a spell."

"Do you boys have any thoughts on where you're going to rest up?" Jim inquired.

"I was thinking 'bout heading to the Pacific Coast Highway, maybe find a half decent motel with a view and plenty of heating," replied Dean. He'd been warming to the idea more and more after Dr Morvant suggested it. "Figured the fresh sea air will do Sammy the world of good. Just gotta keep the kid wrapped up."

"Excellent idea," the Pastor said, approvingly. "There's a very nice little place not far along the coast from where you are right now, in fact. I'll book you in. A couple of weeks to start off with, then we'll take it from there."

"W-what?" Dean spluttered in amazement. "Two weeks? Dude, that's… that's _awesome._"

Pastor Jim laughed. "You're quite welcome. And your father has taken care of Sam's medical insurance, made sure it's all 'properly' covered," his voice grew serious. "I wasn't supposed to tell you, but I thought it was worth mentioning. It was all filed anonymously so it couldn't be traced; that way, you boys wouldn't be implicated if there was any come back. He couldn't come to you because it was too dangerous. But he's been there for you both all along, son."

Dean had to swallow several times to lose the huge lump in his throat. "Right. Thanks for letting me know."

"You know where I am if you need anything else," Jim Murphy paused and then added. "Dean, you know Sam will forgive you anything. But you have to forgive yourself, son. That's the only way to true peace of mind."

"Yeah, sure," _easier said than done. _"And thanks again, Pastor Jim."

"You boys take good care of each other, now."

After the call ended, Dean sat back down next to Sam's bed, cell phone in hand, staring at the floor.

"Wow. Now _that_ I wasn't expecting."

* * *

><p>Sam was awake and in the middle of being exubated by the time Dean returned from his coffee run. Seeing the pain and discomfort on his little brother's face, Dean inwardly cursed himself for having stepped out at the wrong time. He winced when the tube was pulled free, leaving Sam choking and gasping painfully, and headed for the water jug on the nightstand.<p>

There was at least _something_ he could do for his brother.

Dr Morant stood over Sam's bed, rubbing the kid's shoulder and smiling.

"That's it, nice and easy now," said the doc, encouragingly. "You're gonna be sore for a while, but I can give you something for that. Just try not to talk for a while, huh?"

"_Geggg…gaaggggatch…" _Sam nearly choked again, grasped desperately at the straw being held out, shoved it into his mouth and began gulping ice cold water greedily. His eyes closed for a second in bliss, then opened again and travelled down the straw, over the cup of water, and up the leather clad arm of his big brother. Sam, still sucking eagerly on the water like a four year old, blinked up at Dean, head wobbling sleepily.

"Take it easy, little bro," Dean murmured and gently palmed the back of Sam's scull. "Don't go making yourself sick now."

Sam's red-rimmed eyes remained fixed on him until he drained the cup.

"Thanks," he croaked, and sank back against the pillows.

"Anytime, dude," Dean replied, kindly. "Anytime."

Sam stared at up at Dean, mouth opening and closing as though wanting to talk and not having the energy.

Dean smiled and rested a hand on Sam's chest, rubbing carefully. "Later. We'll talk later, Sammy," he spotted the anxiety in the kid's eyes and nodded. "Ain't nothing for you to worry about, dude. Just got some apologising to do. Me, that is."

Sam slowly shook his head. "N-no. Y-you already did that," he raised a finger to his ear and grinned tiredly. "I heard you."

"Yeah, but..."

Sam slapped a hand clumsily over his brother's. "No buts."

But Dean couldn't leave it alone. "I can't... Sammy what I said about Jess..."

"S'ok. Forget it."

"Sam..."

"_Ahem_," Doc Morvant, who had remained tactfully quiet while checking Sam's vitals and administering more pain meds into his IV, cleared his throat before the brothers could start laying into each other. "Your fever's dropped a little and your last cardiac marker profile showed improvement. I'll be by later for your next examination, Sam, but in the meantime, I suggest you both get some sleep."

Dean waited until he left the room, a couple of scrub-clad nurses in his wake, before rounding on Sam again.

"What I said was stupid and cruel," he said quickly, cutting Sam off before he could even open his mouth. "And I hope that one day you'll be able to forgive me."

"Already done and dusted, man." Sam sighed and gazed at Dean with a tired, half-smile. "And I guess it makes us even. After what I did at Roosevelt..."

"Sam, don't you go there!" Dean snapped. "You were possessed by that bastard Ellicot, what was my excuse? Huh? You tell me that! My anger and vindictiveness almost got you killed, for fuck sake! How the hell can you forgive me so easy?"

Sam nodded slowly, eyes wide and moist, then struggled up into a sitting position, still clutching Dean's hand to his chest. "'Cos you're my big brother, and I love you so damn much that sometimes it hurts," he whispered, rendering Dean speechless.

Having your own words thrown back at you wasn't supposed to make feel _good_ about yourself, yet Sam had managed it, in spite of all the drugs.

Dean stared at him for a long, long time. Taking the kid completely by surprise, he leaned over and wrapped him up in his arms, ignoring the urge to squeeze him tight in case he hurt him... again.

"Never said that, bitch!" he finally replied, petulantly, pulling away and wiping his nose.

"Sure you did, jerk!" Sam grinned suddenly. "And we were holding hands at the time. What's it gonna be next? Chocolates and flowers?"

"No, but I might just get you a knuckle sandwich, heavy on the knuckles, if you don't shut the hell up!" growled Dean, good naturedly.

Sam's chuckle was a little drowsy, indicative of his pending sleep. "Aw man. S'sweet, Dean. You _luuurrrve _me!"

"I said _shut up_, Sam, or no two week vacation on the coast!"

"_And_ you're taking me away from all this? Oh my!"

"Alright, that's the _last time_ I'm letting them give you morphine, I swear it!"

_**The End.**_

_**Thanks for reading and reviewing everyone.**_

_**I apologise for not finishing and posting this sooner, as I had intended. **_

_**Unfortunately, our black labrador pup, Nelson, got a bit of a tummy bug and kept throwing up everywhere.**_

_**Possible epilogue for this coming up, involving their vacation.**_

_**Haven't fully decided yet, mainly depends on how busy things get over the next few days, so it might not be until next week.**_

_**Hope that's ok.**_

_**Big Sam and Dean cuddles to you all.**_

_**Love ST**_

_**xxxx**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Ice Cold in LA**

**Epilogue.**

_**Here ya go. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed this story. Your contributions do provide a lot of encouragement, and help a writer feel wanted.**_

Dean glanced over at the snoozing occupant of the passenger seat, and smiled.

After signing out of Dr Morvant's care, Sam had refused to lie down in the back, where Dean had spent some considerable time and effort plumping up pillows and laying soft, warm blankets.

The kid insisted he was fine, able to stay awake and navigate. Stubborn little bastard.

Damn good job the older brother was a master at remembering directions, because Sam had fallen asleep within ten minutes of leaving the hospital grounds. Dean couldn't say he was altogether surprised, given all his little brother had been through.

But he _was_ in for a surprise when he saw where he and Sam would be staying for the next two weeks. It wasn't what he was expecting.

At the end of a long, gravel road, stretching back from the sea like a long arm reaching for dry land, The Cranberry Hotel resided in the fading evening light like a grand duchess. According to the online brochure Dean printed out, it boasted a spa facility, indoor swimming pool, and four stars, which was just three stars more than he and Sam were used to. A two story, graceful, red brick building, with hanging baskets of winter flowering plants dangling from each balcony, the Cranberry was indeed a sight for sore eyes.

"Wow," Dean muttered, eyeing the place up and down. He wasn't sure how he felt about staying in such opulent surroundings, when hinky motel rooms with greasy diner food was more his style. "Guess I can get used to this."

Leaving Sam asleep in the passenger seat, Dean got out, quietly closed the door, and headed inside to check in.

The hall and foyer was draped in red velvet, complimented by dark oak wooden floors and furniture, creating a surprisingly warm and cosy atmosphere, only enhanced by the soft glow from the massive stone fire place in the lounge, just to the left off the entrance hall.

The fire place itself was central to the lounge, with two low slung, comfy looking dark red suede sofas on both sides of a dark oak coffee table, facing each other, and a beautiful deep oak bar, sporting a vast range of single malt Scotch, and dusty vintage wine. Lighting was provided not only by the fire but also by large carriage-style lanterns placed strategically throughout the room nearby small reading desks with accompanying soft arm chairs. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves, the contents mainly leather-bound journals, and a few paperbacks scattered here and there.

The only sound, above the crackling of the blazing logs in the grate, was the tick-tick-ticking of a grandfather clock, squatting in the shadows at the end of the bar.

Thick red, velvet drapes kept the cold, snow-ridden world at bay, while at the same time effectively containing the warmth of the room.

The overall effect was that of a private tavern, but left one with the feeling of having walked into an old library, or a place of prayer.

Dean was kind of mesmerised by it, and knew Sam would fall in love with the place the instant he walked through the door.

It wasn't just the quiet, of which there was plenty.

There was a great sense of _peace_, one that Dean hadn't felt in way too long.

"Ah!" a quiet, Irish twang announced from the bar area. "You must be Dean Winchester."

Dean whirled around, startled and feeling a little embarrassed at having been caught unawares.

The owner of the voice was standing at the rear of the bar, cloaked in shadow, but Dean could see he was tall, well built, meaty arms folded across his chest, and leaning against the grandfather clock.

Dean followed suit, folded arms, feet shoulder-width apart, stance deceptively casual.

"That depends," he said, neutrally.

The shadow rumbled with laughter, and stepped forward into the light, arms leaning on the bar, brown eyes twinkling with kindness.

"Ya alright, Pastor Jim told me you were coming," he held out a beefy hand. "Name's Patch. Pleased to make your acquaintance, young Winchester."

"The 'Young' Winchester is still asleep out in the car," Dean replied, but his mouth twitched into a smile. "I'm the older brother."

The guy, who looked around John Winchester's age, tilted his head slightly, smile widening.

"I know who ye are, kid," he turned and pulled a dusty old bottle down from a shelf, along with three tumblers. "Now, you're all booked in already, so go get the 'Younger' afore he freezes his bollocks off out there. Get some whisky into ya both."

"Uh, we need to keep off the booze for a while, doc's orders," Dean stated, apologetically. "Especially Sammy."

The Irishman made a rude noise of dismissal. "_Booze_, maybe. But I'm not talking about that American shite gutrot you boys insist on quaffing," he leaned forward, the light catching his brown eyes and making them dance. "I'm talking about the real stuff… the water of life. Do you the world of good, so long as you remember the advice _everything in moderation._"

Dean nodded. He liked this guy already.

"That's real kind of you, Patch," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a gentleman and scholar."

"Ach, gentlemen?" Patch scoffed with good humour. "Me? How absurd! I work for a living! Now away with you!"

Dean laughed and backed away, hands held palm outwards. "I'm awaying. Be right back with my brother."

He turned and headed back out into the foyer, almost running in his haste to get to Sam. He couldn't wait to see the kid's reaction to this place, and Patch… what a character!

Shivering at the blast of cold, wintry air that hit him as he opened the front door, Dean squinted against the brightness of the snow.

"Aw man…" he muttered when he saw his brother, and took off across the icy parking lot.

Sam was struggling out of the car, clinging on for dear life to the passenger door, worried eyes searching his surroundings. The worry immediately vanished when he saw Dean, replaced with a look of uncertainty, something that didn't go unnoticed by his big brother.

"Sammy, what're you doing?" said Dean, nearly slipping over on the ice and skidding to an uneasy halt next to Sam. "Should've stayed in the car 'til I'd checked in. It's cold out here, and you're still sick."

The kid shifted nervously from foot to foot, still holding on tight to the door. His face was deathly pale, and his body was wracked with shivers.

"Uh, I-I w-woke up," Sam mumbled, and looked away. "Y-you w-weren't h-here. And… and I th-thought…"

Dean's heart broke just a little. He knew exactly what Sam had been thinking.

_Aw, Kid. I wouldn't leave you out here. Not after what happened last time._

Instead of calling him on it, Dean reached inside the car, grabbed up one of the blankets, and pulled it around Sam's shoulders.

"C'mon inside, Sammy," he said, softly, and wrapped an arm around his brother's waist, partly for support, partly for comfort. "You'll like it here. Just your kind of place, with lots of books to read, and the owner's pretty cool."

Sam shivered and stumbled wearily on the icy ground, grateful beyond words when he felt his brother's arm tighten. He felt so damn tired, his head hurt, and the bruising on his chest from the defib paddles hadn't helped to ease his aching lungs. He was no longer coughing hard enough to wake the dead, and the pneumonia had been defeated by some hard-assed antibiotics, but Sam still wasn't feeling too good. Winchesters were renowned for their acting skills, and could easily have given some of the Oscar wining Greats a few tips, but even Sam had to admit that hiding the extent of his ills from Doc Morvant and Dean had been a challenge. Somehow, he figured, the show _wouldn't_ go on and the curtain call would most definitely come. And soon.

Like… about _now?_

Sam's vision dimmed and he swayed, blinking heavily, chin dropping onto Dean's shoulder. Their progress across the parking lot stopped abruptly, and gentle fingers combed back and down through Sam's hair to gently squeeze his nape.

"Easy, Sammy," he heard Dean murmuring to him. "Just take it slow and steady. No rush, ok?"

"C-cold," Sam stammered out from between chattering teeth, and blinked again. The world gradually slowed, then stopped spinning, and with a bit more blinking his vision finally cleared.

"You good?" Dean asked in a low voice.

Sam just nodded in reply and the two of them continued on their short journey to the hotel entrance, a little faster this time, with Dean virtually dragging Sam along with him.

"You weren't ready to leave, huh?" Dean remarked, casually, as they slipped inside the building. Moving the two of them through the foyer to the lounge, he rubbed Sam's arms briskly, trying to warm him up. "Seriously, bro, I know you don't like hospitals, but you need to be a little more honest with me, even if you can't be with the doctors."

"I'm ok," said Sam, but refused to look his brother in the eye. "Just a little cold and tired…"

"I call bullshit," Dean interrupted immediately, stopped and gently, but forcibly turned Sam to face him. "And let me tell you this, Sammy-boy, you lie to me about your health just _one more time_ and I'm taking you straight back again." He eyed him, sternly. "Understood?"

Sam stared at his big brother, a little like a wide-eyed six year old, and nodded vigorously, completely speechless.

Giving him a pat on the back, Dean grinned suddenly. "Atta boy," then tugged Sam gently into the lounge. "Patch? This is my brother, Sam."

Sam glanced around in confusion until he met the kindly gaze of a big, burly guy who bore an ever so slight resemblance to his dad.

"Oho, Sam m'lad!" the Irishman bellowed across the room from the bar, and raised a crystal tumbler, three fingers-full of a dark amber liquid. "Park your arse by the fire and get warmed up."

"Uh…" Sam glanced between the two men, still swaying in his brother's firm grasp.

Patch was smiling, all innocent and friendly, but his face wavered in and out, as though another image was trying to superimpose in its place. Sam blinked a few times, and wondered if the fever was returning.

"S'ok, Sam," Dean murmured, frowning worriedly. "Patch is a friend of Pastor Jim Murphy's." He lifted a hand and cautiously pressed it to Sam's forehead. "Temperature's up again. Let's get you seated, huh?"

Sam stared harder at the Irishman, and gasped when the image fighting for dominance won-out just for the barest of seconds. John Winchester's stern, worried face looked back at him, studying Sam just as closely. The strange apparition shook his head slightly, eyes flickering to Dean and back.

Sam's mouth dropped open. He closed it, then swallowed a few times, and nodded back. Another long slow blink, and Patch's face reappeared, with no sign of John Winchester.

"Y-yeah," he whispered, disturbed and confused. _Could've sworn I saw…yeah, say that out loud and see where that gets you. _Instead he said, "th-think I'm g-gonna n-need that whisky."

Sam felt a little like a child who had caught the real Santa Claus in the act of climbing down the chimney on Christmas Night, but the leather sofa was heaven sent and very much welcome.

Dean made sure his little brother sat as close to the fire as possible and replaced the now cold, wet blanket with a nicer, softer one provided by the hotel owner. Another blanket was folded neatly on the coffee table, just in case.

Dean settled right next to him, one arm stretched along the back of the leather sofa behind his brother.

"Here ya go, lad," Patch handed Sam the whisky. When Sam made no move to hold it, just carried on staring up at him, the Irishman pressed the glass into his hand and wrapped Sam's cold, stiff fingers around it. "That'll help you sleep. I've added some lemon and honey, amongst other things." The guy tutted, good naturedly. "That's a rare occurrence, so it is. Make the most of it. There's only one thing you should put in whisky, and that's _more whisky!_ Cheers!"

Patch clinked his glass to Sam's, then Dean's, and took a delicate sip.

"Ahhhh. Now that's damn beautiful," he muttered with a satisfied grin on his face. "Go on, lad," he gestured to Sam while Dean took a long, deep gulp. "Drink up now."

Sam obediently tasted the concoction, swirled it slowly round his mouth, swallowed, and his eyes widened with pleasant surprise. Not only did it taste good, but that nice, deep burn inside, seconds after he'd swallowed it down, sank into his flesh and warmed his bones to the very core. His eyelids drooped of their own accord, and the glass would have slipped from his fingers if Dean hadn't gently removed it in time.

"Sleep well, kiddo," Sam heard, before the warmth of the doctored whisky, the distant crackle of the fire, and Dean's soothing voice allowed him to slip into a pleasant slumber. Safe, and peaceful.

Dean and Patch carried on chatting quietly for a while, before the older brother also felt himself dozing off.

"That's it, son," the Irishman murmured, softly. "Don't fight it, now. The rest will do you both the world of good."

Patch's voice almost brought Dean back. There was something familiar about it, the accent not quite so heavy, as though the owner wasn't too worried about keeping up the act anymore.

Dean fell into a deep, restful sleep with that thought hovering at the edge of his mind.

Patch sighed, his face flickering eerily in the firelight, and leaned down to brush a few strands of hair off Sam's face, then gave Dean's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

But it was John Winchester who stood up.

Both his sons were out for the count.

"Thank you Patch and Pastor Jim," he murmured.

He needed this time with the boys, even undercover.

The elixir was made up by Patch Jenkins, the real hotel owner and friend of Pastor Jim, and John was giving it a trial run. It had worked well for the most part, except where it obviously didn't fool his youngest, and Dean had been about to cotton on. Patch, a talented alchemist and warlock, had warned John that fever and exhaustion might be enough to break the illusion and reveal his true self, but that was a risk John was prepared to take. This way, he couldn't be tracked or traced by any demons from afar. Up close and personal was another matter for discussion. The elixir was designed to cloak the bearer from some of the most powerful forces at large in the world, allowing the hunter to move freely without hindrance or danger, though this was the first time it had truly been tried and tested in the field.

So, that was one for Patch to tick off his 'to do' list:

Tested on humans – only a qualified success.

As encouraging as that seemed, John wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to risk a close up demon trial and, in any case, the elixir was only powerful enough to pass muster at a distance. Say, twenty feet or more. Any determined demon or shape-shifter standing close enough, would soon see through it.

John shook his head. No. It would be many, many years before hunters would come to trust the elixir enough to rely on it.

"Are you ok, Johnno?" asked Patch. He'd quietly entered the room once the brother's were asleep, and stood silently waiting for his friend.

John smiled sadly over his shoulder at the Irishman.

"Yeah," he murmured and looked back at his sons. His babies. He'd die protecting them, if needed. "Thanks for letting me talk to them."

"Hmm," replied Patch with a noncommittal shrug. "I think they'd feel the benefit if they knew who they were _really_ talking to, my friend."

John hung his head in defeat. "I know," he whispered, his voice sounding almost strangled with fear and grief. "But this is safer… for them. The less contact they have with me, the better. The demons won't know where to look, who to target."

"We hope," said Patch, pointedly staring at John. "There's no guarantee, Johnno. There never is."

"But I have to try," answered John. He hated to admit it, but he was scared, more scared than he'd been in a long, long time. The past was catching up, and John was anxious to put an end to all this crap.

The Irishman thought that through for a second, then slowly nodded.

"Right enough," he crossed over to the bar. "The boys'll be out for the rest of the night. Would you like a taste of the Emerald Isle afore ye go?"

Patch grinned when John smirked, shoved his hands in his jean pockets and sauntered after him.

"You read my mind."

* * *

><p>An hour passed by, sitting at the bar and talking in low voices, before John reluctantly decided it was time to head out.<p>

"You could always stay tonight," Patch offered, watching the senior Winchester haul himself up off the bar stool. "And leave before dawn. The boys won't know a thing."

"Wish I could," said John, sadly. "But I got a few leads to follow up before the trail goes cold." He held out a hand. "Thank you for looking after my sons. I owe you one."

"I'll be collecting soon enough, no doubt," the Irishman grinned, cheekily, and accepted the hand shake. His eyes searched John's face for a second, and his expression turned serious. "You take care of _yourself,_ my friend. Those boys need their father alive and well."

"I will," replied John, and padded quietly back over to his sleeping sons. "G'night boys." He tucked one of the blankets in tighter around Sam, and grabbed the other from the coffee table to tenderly wrap around Dean. The boys didn't stir, even when John smoothed a palm over Sam's cheek and the other over Dean's heart. "Stay safe for me, you two."

With one last glance, full of sadness and longing, John Winchester disappeared from the brothers' lives.

Patch, who had followed John out into the foyer, watched the door close behind his friend, a few stray flakes of snow drifting in to melt on the oak wood floor.

"Now there goes a man with too much on his mind," he muttered, matter-of-factly.

* * *

><p>Dean yawned and stretched his arms high above his head, opened his eyes and frowned.<p>

_What the hell?_

It quickly all came flooding back to him. He remembered meeting Patch, the friendly Irish hotel owner, who Dean could've sworn he'd met before somewhere, Sam's near face-plant and silent, grudging admission that he really wasn't doing so great after all, and then the taste of whisky in his mouth, warming and soothing… he didn't recall much after that, though.

A small snuffling noise next to him made Dean glance over at the other occupant of the sofa.

Sam's head lolled against Dean's shoulder, eyelids fluttering open and taking in his surroundings with as much surprise as Dean had.

"Huh? What?" Sam blinked, lifted and turned his head sharply, yelping in astonishment when his nose banged against Dean's. "Dean! You scared the crap out of me!"

Dean rubbed his bruised nose, glaring at Sam. "Did you have to sit so damn close? You nearly broke my nose, dude!"

"Sorry," said Sam, apologetically. "Didn't see you there."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Dean snarked back, mouth twitching with amusement, then peered at Sam's face. Kid was still a little pale, but over all he was looking… well, good.

"How you feeling?" he asked, cautiously, anyway.

Sam nodded. "Ok, actually. I mean, better than I was yesterday," he added hurriedly, seeing the look on Dean's face. His brother hadn't been entirely convinced last time Sam gave a similar answer. "Must've slept really well last night."

"Yeah," Dean looked around the room. The fire was still blazing away in the grate, and the room was still cosy and warm. There was a lightening around the edges of the velvet drapes that suggested night had finally given way to morning, and was, in fact, already on the road to noon. "Can't believe we didn't even make it to our room."

He scrubbed a hand down his face and leaned forward, resting elbows on knees.

Somehow, in some way, Dean got the feeling he was missing something.

"Sam?" Dean wasn't sure what he was asking, but there was a strange atmosphere here. Not dangerous or unpleasant even, but… just… _strange._

"Yeah?"

"You getting anything on Psychic FM? About this place, I mean?" Dean asked, voice quiet and serious.

Sam considered that for a moment before answering but, judging by the look on the kid's face, it was clear his little brother felt the same way.

"Uh, well," Sam blew out a breath and gazed up at his brother. "Now that you mention it, something weird happened last night, but I…" he frowned suddenly. "Ya know what? I can't even remember last night all that well."

"You were running a high temperature, again," Dean theorised. "That could explain it, _but_…" he raised an eyebrow and made a 'roll on' gesture with his left hand.

"_But_," Sam continued. "I don't know Dean, but was _Dad_ here at some point? 'Cos I could swear I got a faint whiff of his aftershave."

Dean stared at him in silence.

He didn't want to admit it, but Sam was right. Dean had smelled their dad's aftershave too, but he just couldn't pin point when. It was as though the scent had come to him in a dream, and evaporated away into the night.

In contrast, the smell of cooked bacon wafted through to the lounge, followed by the big, friendly Irishman.

"Good mornin' to you both!" Patch bellowed, grinning brightly at the two youngsters. He was carrying a silver tray piled up with hot food, steaming coffee, fresh fruit, and orange juice. "Hope you both slept well, 'cos I just couldn't bring myself to wake you and send you upstairs, not when you boys looked so peaceful. Now, there's plenty of food, so get to eating. We'll have you both healthy in no time!"

Dean hadn't quite let go of his conversation with Sam just before Patch arrived, but his attention was easily snagged by all the food. He licked his lips in anticipation when a plate of bacon, poached eggs, and pancakes were set down on his lap.

"Aw man, this looks good!" he exclaimed, eye wide and practically gleaming with lust.

"Wow! Just check out all this fruit," said Sam, with equal enthusiasm. "Strawberries, pineapple, kiwi…" he shook his head and grabbed for the syrup before Dean could empty the bottle all over his pancakes. "No fair, Dean! Leave some for me!"

Patch laughed, brightly. "Now now, boys, there's plenty more in the kitchen. Just take your time."

Sam glanced up at him, feeling a little guilty for not having acknowledged the guy sooner, but he'd suddenly rediscovered his appetite and was rather distracted by it. "Thank you so much for all this. It's gotta be the best meal we've had in a while."

"Yeah, and home made too!" said Dean around a mouthful of bacon, pancake and syrup. It looked kind of gross, with his cheeks bulging like a glutinous hamster. "This bacon… beautiful!" he gestured at the plate with his knife and fork.

Patch blushed with pleasure, seemingly overcome by modesty. "I cure it myself, on site, would you believe."

Sam stared at him. Just for a moment, a fleeting memory of a wavering face, an image of his father's eyes, dark with worry and sadness, made him pause but was gone again in an instant. Whatever had him flummoxed the night before was no longer apparent.

"Sammy?" Dean gently nudged him with an elbow. "You ok there?"

"Yeah," Sam responded, with a small smile. "Yeah, just thought I saw something... ya know what? Nevermind. Like you said, I had a fever."

Dean nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's probably just it."

Patch watched them both carefully, trying not to appear too eager. "A fever will mess with the mind, Sam. And it takes a lot out of you, so here…"

He dished up more bacon, and ladled another poached egg on Sam's plate.

Technically, Patch was against lacing innocent people's food with mind altering potions. It was shameful, and low, and went totally against the grain. But he had promised John Winchester his boys wouldn't remember anything other than Patch Jenkins, hotel owner, from the night they checked in.

What they didn't know couldn't get them hurt.

Already, any suspicions that something was out of place or different, even the slightest ones, were slowly being erased by the memory draught. Come later that afternoon, the brothers would never know they had anything to be suspicious of in the first place.

John would come for them when the time was right.

But for now the boys were safe, content, and filling their bellies with nutritious food.

Patch poured coffee and chatted away with his guests, liking the boys all the more with each passing minute. It was obvious that Dean adored his little brother, in spite of all the teasing, and when Sam looked at Dean his eyes held the unmistakable glimmer of hero worship. A little worn and faded by years of growing independence and self-worth, maybe, but hero worship was still there, nonetheless.

"Here, have some more bacon, Sammy."

"Dean, I've already had three. I'm gonna explode if I eat anymore!"

"You need it, kiddo. You've been real sick."

Sam let out an affectionate but frustrated sigh.

"Like I need reminding."

"Yeah, you clearly do. You're memory's not what it used to be, huh Sammy?"

Dean received a light punch on the shoulder, which was returned with a ruffle to Sam's hair.

Patch grinned. It was going to be a fun and interesting two weeks.

_**The End... No, really it is this time!**_

_**Thanks again everyone.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


End file.
